


To Perish Twice

by Sar_Kalu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Angst fic, I've been reading Robert Frost and cannot be held accountable for my actions, au!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 16:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19727143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I’ve tasted of desireI hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo say that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.- Robert Frost----------Agnes Nutter warned them to choose their faces wisely...





	To Perish Twice

It had been a stressful day.

All the days had been stressful for the past eleven years.

But here and now in the sunshine, Crowley delighted in a trick well played. Saint James' was glorious in green, the last of the summer heat saturating the pavement and sandwiching the whole world in golden warmth. Crowley's internal snake - which he'd never quite shed - was basking itself, almost purring it's goodwill towards all humanity. Crowley was safe and if Agnes had been correct, Aziraphale would be as well. 

Agnes would be correct - she had to be.

Aziraphale's pocket still held the slip of paper that the angel had snuck from Anathema when the Apocalypse had happened. Crowley smoothed his fingers over it, his good mood unswayed by the niggling anxiety that nibbled at the back of his mind. Undoubtably left over nerves from the sight of Aziraphale in Crowley's skin being hit over the head by Hastur. Crowley disliked the thought of his angel being in Hell; had disliked returning to Heaven just as much.

Crowley's eyes narrowed, his expression surprisingly forbidding considering that he wore Aziraphale's face still. The angel was better suited to smiling than scowling; though he was undoubtably fierce when the occasion called for it. Gabriel had certainly thought so. The Archangel had stepped back after his scathing little bite and Crowley felt Aziraphale's jaw ripple with the force of his clenched teeth. Rage like acid in his veins at the memory of Gabriel's snarl: "shut up and die already"; as if Aziraphale deserved such things said to him, as if Crowley's angel wasn't a gift to the whole universe. 

Crowley consciously relaxed his teeth. 

The afternoon seemed to drag. Noon slid past in a soft glow of bright light that dimmed as the sun sank behind London's skyscrapers and a chill set in. Shadows trailed long fingers beneath the leering trees backlit against the horizon and quiet settled thick upon the park as cheerful children and their families went home. Even the ducks barely quacked now, having settled into their nests for the night.

Aziraphale should have been back by now.

Crowley stood and twisted on the spot where he stood, the pale blue of his angel sharp beneath brows that he drew downwards in a dark frown. Perhaps Aziraphale had forgotten their rendezvous? 

It was unlikely... but well, the possibility remained.

Aziraphale's bookshop was quiet. Soho was not. Crowds of pre-drunks swayed through the streets to the beat of the music that leaked from windows and basements. A few young yahoos yelled at the tops of their lungs. Chav's answered back, clamorous calls crashing off the brick walls - and Aziraphale's bookshop stood dark and silent on the corner, as it had for close to three hundred years.

"That place is never open," a young woman called from across the street, she was dressed in heels and had her hair up in a complicated up-do, make up rimming brown eyes with black, making her look even more doe-eyed than Crowley supposed she usually did.

Crowley ignored her as he entered. There was definitely no one home.

Agnes Nutter's prophecy burned like fire in Aziraphale's pocket and Crowley jolted, "choose your faces wisely"; if something had happened, it was likely that perhaps Aziraphale had remained in character... which meant... Mayfair!

Crowley darted from the bookshop and hailed a taxi.

The ride from Soho to Mayfair was eggshell delicate with tension. Crowley's heart felt two sizes too big for his chest. It beat heavy and hard, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Blood thundered like a rabid tattoo in his ears. His breath was closer to panting than steady calmness.

The flat in Mayfair, Crowley's flat, was dark too.

Crowley pushed the door open.

The hardwood polished floors gleamed in the bright light of the full moon.

Silver flashed in the sink and Crowley couldn't help the soft smile at the sight of the two wine glasses that were set, clean and polished, on the countertop. A testament to the night before, when Aziraphale had explained his plan - bright eyed with hope and excitement - and Crowley had poured at least three bottles out in celebration.

Crowley's plants twitched and shivered in their pots as Crowley swept past towards the office.

The throne stood centre stage.

The desk before it, heavy and square, dark shadow against the darker walls.

There was an object on the table.

A pair of black sunglasses.

Crowley stared at them, uncomprehending. "Aziraphale?" Crowley called out, fear making his voice high and tight.

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley paced his flat, looking

"Aziraphale?"

seeking,

"Aziraphale?"

hunting,

"Aziraphale?"

searching...

"AZIRAPHALE?!"

Not finding.

Crowley fell to his knees, once more before the desk and the pair of black lensed sunglasses perched on the edge, staring up at the uncaring slate grey ceiling.

Agnes Nutter had warned them, had told them to choose their faces wisely for they would face fire... but never did she mention _water_.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry. Truly I am.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](//sar-kalu.tumblr.com/) if you wish to harangue my lifestyle choices.


End file.
